


Love It or List It

by littlebyrde



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A traumatized and complicated one though, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cleaning, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, In this house we love and respect Molly Weasley, No beta we die like Harry's parental figures, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sirius Black is a Good Person, Somebody please give Harry a healthy outlet for his trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebyrde/pseuds/littlebyrde
Summary: Consider this; Harry Potter has a decade of household experience. Consider also that Harry Potter has a savior complex, is fifteen, angry, hates to feel useless, and is a boy desperate for a home. Consider too that Harry Potter is his father’s son, a Marauder to his bones, but that his stubbornness, his determination, his moral compass and compassion, the burning resolve to fix things, is all Lily.Consider a summer, and a family, and an unloved home housing a boy too used to feeling unloved. Consider all of these things, and wonder what could have happened.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	1. The Drawing Room, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a joke. Blame my friend for it getting this far.

Grimmauld Place reminded Harry of his cupboard. There were spiders in the corners, dust on the shelves and thick, velvety shadows that smelled of mildew and unused space. It was bigger, but the clinging darkness was the same. Harry hated it. Not the house itself, not really, but the pervasive and all-too-familiar feeling of neglect that clung to it. 

When Mrs. Weasley presented him with a bottle of Doxycide, a face mask, and a determined expression, he’d been oddly relieved. It had been years since he’d had to clean Number 4, and then, he’d resented it, but that had been because of Aunt Petunia and her love of bleach solvent and spotless floors. Cleaning, while not his favorite activity, was something he knew how to do. It was something productive to fill his time, something to burn off his energy and his anger, pulling his mind from Voldemort and the Order and all of the secrets floating around him. It was something he could do to help. He could pay back Mrs. Weasley’s kindness and cheer up Sirius and not think about the trial. And it was a lot more fun with Hermione and the Weasleys around. 

He threw himself into Mrs. Weasley’s tasks with gusto. 

Grimmauld Place was a daunting challenge, but Harry’d had to clean up after Dudley for most of his youth, and years of owl care, not to mention his various… colorful experiences at Hogwarts, had steeled him to the worst of the mess. 

He resolved to tackle the drawing room first. They had already started there in the morning, and out of all the rooms, it was the least challenging, now that the Doxies were gone. So long as they stayed away from the boggart in the writing desk, they shouldn’t run into any problems. Besides, it had large windows, and Harry was sick of sitting in the gloom. 

He frowned at the dusty panes of glass, shedding motes into the paltry grey light like molting birds. 

“Don’t suppose you have Windex?” He asked Ron.

Ron gave him a blank look, but Hermione let out a small laugh. 

“Most wizards rely on cleaning charms,” she replied, tucking a stray strand of curly hair behind her ear. Her bun was messy, and she wore old, oversized clothes that Harry thought she must have borrowed from someone larger and taller, because they hung off her frame like Duddly’s castoffs had done on him, past her knees, overlong sleeves rolled back so they didn’t cover her hands. 

Ron wore a shirt that was too broad for his frame, but not quite long enough, that, judging from the smudged black burn across the front, he’d inherited from Charlie. The unhappy grey haze of Grimmauld Place turned his bright red hair to sallow copper. 

“There are potions, of course,” Hermione continued, her voice taking on a familiar lecturing tone. She hesitated. “I- I can ask Mrs. Weasley if she has any?” 

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s okay. There’s vinegar in the kitchen, I’ll get it.” 

He hurried down the long, dark hall and peeked into the kitchen. It was deserted. Not many people dared trespass on Mrs. Weasley’s domain, and she was somewhere upstairs, likely lecturing the twins. Kreacher was nowhere to be seen, and Harry hadn’t seen Sirius for hours. He swiped a bottle of vinegar and a few spray bottles, filled the spray bottles with warm water and a splash of vinegar, grabbed some soft, clean cloths, and hurried back to the drawing room, where Ron and Hermione were in the midst of a heated discussion. 

They broke off when he entered, giving each other a frosty look. Harry bit back a flicker of anger and tossed them both a cloth. 

“Wipe the dust off the glass first. Ron and I can do the windows. Hermione, would you do the cabinets.” 

“Sure, Harry,” she agreed, giving Ron one last hard look before stalking to the back of the room. 

Harry sighed and leaned closer to Ron. “What’s she upset about?” He asked. 

Ron shrugged, scrunching up his nose. “Kreacher,” he replied. “I said that we should really get Kreacher to do this kind of stuff-”

_Ah. Well, that would do it._

“-And she blew up.” 

Harry shook his head. “She’s right, though, Ron. Kreacher doesn’t want to clean, clearly, and we can’t order him to.” 

He approached the left side of the large windows. The street beyond looked like it belonged in mid-December, rather than high summer, so coated in dust and grime the glass was. 

“Sirius could,” Ron grumbled. 

“He won’t.”

Ron let out a deep, dramatic sigh. “I know that.” He swiped at the window and grimaced at the smear of grime on his cloth. “Still, might make life easier if he did.” 

Harry huffed a laugh, rolled his shoulders, and got to work. 

Ron didn’t appreciate having to clean without magic, and even Hermione seemed to tire of it fast, but Harry didn’t mind. Seeing the clean windows, feeling unencumbered sunlight on his face for the first time in days, was satisfying. 

Eventually, Hermione and Ron begged off, Hermione saying that she wanted to revise her potions essay (again) and Ron quick to join her, probably hoping to get her help with his own homework. Harry let them go, waving them off when they got concerned. 

Hermione reminded him to stay away from the boggart, and the potential cursed items in the cabinets, wringing her hands. Ron scoffed and dragged her up the stairs.

They left Harry in silence, alone with his thoughts. He focused on the stain in front of him, trying to block out his worries. _Just don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

He finished with the windows and moved on to the battered hardwood floors. Moving the furniture from the rug took some doing, and left him sweaty, sore, and panting, but he managed. He rolled up the moth-eaten rug to reveal the dark, water stained floor beneath. Some of the narrow wooden planks had gone black and soft with rot, and there were dark patches of mold here and there. It would take more than vinegar and elbow grease to fix that. 

Mrs. Weasley might be able to help. 

His anger towards her had yet to abate, but she was the only one he could think of who would be thrilled to clean the floor. The twins might do it if he asked, but he didn’t quite trust them not to pull a prank while they were at it. Sirius didn’t seem like the ‘chores’ type. Mr. Weasley was working, and besides, Harry didn’t feel comfortable going to him. Maybe professor Lupin, but he and the rest of the adult members of the order weren’t at the house. 

Harry sighed, rolled his neck, and went to find Mrs. Weasley. 

She was upstairs, battling with a pair of furious bedroom curtains. She swiped her wand viciously through the air, breaking the enchantment, and the curtains fell limp against the wall. Mrs. Weasley huffed and wiped her forehead, pleased. 

Harry, hovering anxiously in the doorframe, cleared his throat. 

She startled and turned, wand half-raised, before catching sight of him. Her face brightened. 

“Oh, Harry, dear! What’s the matter?” 

Harry scratched the nape of his neck. “Erm. Well, I, uhm. I was cleaning downstairs, and I think, er, I think the drawing room floor might need, er…”

Mrs. Weasley’s face did something strange, her eyes going very bright. Harry shifted his weight. 

“I thought I’d told you all to take a break for lunch,” she said, sliding her wand behind her ear and smiling kindly at him. 

“Oh. You did, but, well. I-” 

Mrs. Weasley clicked her tongue, striding across the room to pat his cheek. “Thank you so much for your help, sweetheart. You can take a break, if you want to.” 

Harry shook his head, face burning. “No. I, uh, I’d rather keep busy.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s lips pinched, and the concern on her face made Harry’s insides squirm. He stared at the floor.

“Quite alright,” she agreed, voice strained. She cleared her throat and clapped her hands, summoning an air of determined brightness. “Well! Let’s see about that floor, then.”  
  


Mrs. Weasley was horrified to see the state of the hardwood floors. She made a pained noise at the back of her throat, staring at the mildew and water damage like it had personally offended her. “Hardwoods,” she murmured. “In _London_. Look at the state of them.” 

Harry wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but icy resolve appeared on Mrs. Weasley’s face. She rolled up her sleeves and brandished her wand. 

“You step back, now, dear. I’ll handle this.” 

Harry scrambled out of the room and watched her from the doorframe. Mrs. Weasley cast like a conductor before an orchestra, wand twirling and flourishing through the air. The rolled up carpet tightened and floated into the hallway, shedding dust as it went that vanished before it could touch the ground. The furniture walked themselves past Harry, piano clanging discordantly as it went. The mold and water damaged peeled itself up from the ground and dissolved. The hardwoods rebuilt like someone had pressed rewind, until the floor was spotless. Another wave of Mrs. Weasley’s wand and the diluted vinegar solution spilled across the floor and crawled to every corner of the room before evaporating. A small potion vial zipped past Harry’s head, followed by a pair of brushes that set to polishing the floor until it shone. 

In a few frantic minutes, the wood was spotless and gleaming, the air scented with lemon polish. Squares of afternoon sunlight spilled across the room, glowing in comparison to the gloom of the morning. Already, the space felt larger, more open. Like it was easier to breathe. 

Beaming, Mrs. Weasley set her hands on her hips. “Now that is _much_ better!” 

Harry grinned at her. “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.” 

She turned to him, expression. “No, thank you, dear. I appreciate the help. Now, make sure not to touch anything in those cabinets on your own, alright? They could be dangerous.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s attention turned to the pile of furniture, and the moth eaten rug in the hall behind him. She scowled at the previously Doxie infested curtains, hanging like funeral shrouds around the massive windows. “I should ask Sirius what he wants to do with this stuff. I’m not sure that rug can be saved.” 

She shook her ginger head. 

“Of course, I’m not sure we could replace anything, either,” she mumbled.

Harry got the sense he wasn’t supposed to hear that and winced. “Could someone transfigure them? Professor McGonagall is a member of the order, isn’t she?” 

“Oh, no, dear, Professor McGonagall is far too busy-” Mrs. Weasley froze, a considering light in her eyes. “Although… yes, that could work. And perhaps….” She glanced towards the covered portrait of Sirius’ mother. “Yes. Yes, maybe. Excuse me dear, I have a few floo calls to make.” 

And she swept away, patting Harry’s shoulder as she went, a smile spreading across her face.

It was nice to see someone cheerful in the gloomy house. There was a widespread sense of misery in Grimmauld Place that no one seemed immune to. Harry wasn’t sure what caused it, but Mrs. Weasley’s smile and the summer sunshine made it feel lighter. 


	2. The Drawing Room, Part 2

It wouldn’t be long before everyone else returned to help clear out the cabinets, but Harry couldn’t help thinking of the tapestry on the wall. Sirius’s face as talked about his brother wouldn’t leave him alone. 

He frowned at the tapestry sprawled across the wall. Something nagged at the back of his mind. 

_Could we just transfigure them?_

The tapestry wouldn’t come off the wall, but Harry remembered what Hermione had said way back in their first year, about wizards and common sense. So they couldn’t remove the tapestry. That didn’t mean they had to leave it there. Harry knew for a fact that the tapestry could be edited, as evidenced by the black marks left by disowned family members. 

And Harry had the perfect pair to help him. 

He smirked to himself and hurried into the hall, brushing past a muttering Kreacher to race up the stairs. 

“Fred, George,” he cried, knocking on their bedroom door. Something exploded behind the wood, and a moment later, a frazzled, freckled face popped out. 

“Harry!” Fred beamed at him, sparkling soot smeared across his nose. “What can we help you with.”

Harry smiled back, mischievous. “Listen, you two, I have an idea, but I need your help.” 

“Oh?”

A second freckled face appeared. “What’s ickle Harry-kins up to?” 

Harry glanced down the hallway. It was empty, still thick with dust and darkness. “Can I come in?” 

Fred and George exchanged a look, identical red eyebrows raised. 

“Causing trouble, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. 

“‘Course he is, Gred,” George laughed, and opened the door wider. 

The room beyond was a mess, but Harry paid it no mind. He ducked under George’s arm and turned. 

“You know that tapestry downstairs?” 

Fred and George nodded. 

“What about it?”

Harry told them. 

Fred rubbed his chin. “Hm. It’s an intriguing proposition, I’ll give you that.”

“Downright fascinating,” George agreed, mirroring Fred’s pose.

“Will it work?” Harry asked. 

The twins exchanged a look.

“Could do,” said George.

“Very well might,” Fred agreed. “And it would certainly show those Slytherins a thing or two, Forge.”

“Oh, it would, Gred.” 

“So you’ll do it?” Harry asked. 

“Well, we’ll give it our best shot,” Fred said.

“Best not let mum find out until we’re through,” George added. “She might try to stop us.” 

Harry nodded. He’s thought as much; Sirius would be thrilled, but Mrs. Weasley probably wouldn’t like them fiddling with the enchantments the old Blacks had left. Besides, he had the feeling the twins might make something she didn’t wholly approve of. 

“We’ll have to do some research,” Fred said, a calculating edge to his expression. 

George hummed. “Might have to write Lee.” 

“Will you be allowed to?” Harry asked. 

Fred laughed and patted his head. “Don’t you worry, Harry-kins.” 

“Remember who you’re talking to,” George said, puffing out his chest. 

“Good point.” Harry turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and the walls could use some color changing charms, too. The furniture, as well.” 

George cackled. 

“Leave it us,” Fred said, grinning madly. 

All told, it took the twins two days to get back to Harry, and by then, the cabinets had been purged, the dust removed, and the furniture stacked in the corner. Mrs. Weasly had stored the mildew covered rug somewhere, reluctant to throw it out, but determined to get it out of the drawing room. On the whole, the room was much more pleasant without it. The wallpaper had been repaired, and the sunlight drove the dark corners back. It wasn’t quite homey, but it was no longer so oppressive, the smell of dust and rot replaced with wood polish, vinegar, and lemon. 

The twins shook Harry out of his bed before dawn one morning, fingers on their lips, eyes sparkling.

Harry ground and dragged himself upright, groping for his glasses. 

“This is it, Harry,” Fred hissed.

Ron snored and rolled over.

“Thought you might want to join us for our moment of triumph.” 

Harry rubbed his eyes and yawned. 

Fred grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet and dragged him, stumbling, onto the landing and down the stairs. George followed behind them, lit wands held high. The pale light of his lumos spell cast long, weaving shadows on the walls, and Harry worried that he might misstep on the steep stairs and fall. Fred, however, plunged down fearlessly. 

He released Harry’s arm by the door and bounded over to the wall, rubbing his hands together, gleeful. 

“Right. Ready, George?” 

“Ready, Fred.”

George conjured a handful of candles, lighting them while George whispered ‘Nox’. Between the candles and the watery pre-dawn light, the tapestry was only partially shrouded, golden thread gleaming. 

First, the twins went around repairing the scorch marks and tears, weaving together fibers gnawed apart by Doxies or disintegrated by neglect. Then, they stepped back and, together, began to mutter, waving their wands in complicated patterns. They looked very much like their mother when they did that, concentration lining their faces, silver light gleaming on their red hair. 

Harry watched as the tapestry shimmered, begging to twist and warp like melting wax. The golden thread swirled, shifting, gathering in swirls and clumps, or slithering across the wall to create a glittering border. The names of ancient blanks smeared, then faded, swept along the dancing threads into new shapes. 

Harry felt a smile spread across his face as he realized what the twins were creating.

The process was slow, and fascinating to watch, but eventually, the fabric stopped rippling. The worn edges gleamed, good as new. 

George huffed. 

“Well done, Fred.” 

“Bravo, George,” Fred replied. 

“Right.” George cracked his neck. “Step two.” 

He flicked his wand, and, between one blink and the next, the colors changed. It was hard to tell in the faint glow of dawn and orange candlelight, but Harry thought the dark background had become a brilliant, bloody scarlet. 

“And the finishing touch!” Fred proclaimed. He waved his wand, and the pride of lions on the wall began to stretch, opening their toothy mouths in wide, lazy feline yawns. 

Harry stepped forward, taking in the new images with wide eyes.

“This is amazing,” he murmured. 

Fred and George preened. 

“Ah, this is nothing.” 

“Anything for our first investor.” 

Harry laughed, trailing his fingers across the new scarlet weave of the tapestry. One of the lionesses on the fabric growled at his finger, lowering herself into a crouch. Another lounged on an abstract swirl of Gryffindor gold, tail twitching. The male lion, a majestic creature with a full, golden mane, roared soundlessly. 

The whole thing reminded Harry of Gryffindor tower, thumb sized lions stalking among flecks and swirls and symbols of gold, all glittering against a field of crimson. A lump rose in Harry’s throat. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, blinking hard. 

The prideful expressions on the twins’ faces softened. George laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

“”Course. Happy to help.” 

Fred twirled his wand through his fingers. “And we’re not done yet. Care to do the honors, Forge?”

“Oh, you do it, I insist, Gred.” 

Grinning wickedly, Fred leveled his want at the fireplace. The dark wooden serpents rippled, transfiguring into a pair of roaring lion heads. George pointed his wand at the rest of the room and wallpaper came away in great curls, revealing smooth, white walls. Fred spelled the curtains crimson and gold, to match the tapestry, and George aimed at charm at the chandelier overhead. It nearly doubled in size, polished to a brilliant shine. The candle holders reared back, becoming rampant lions. 

Harry watched in awe, still amazed by such displays of magic, even after so many years. 

George hit the furniture with the same spell his mother had used earlier, and each couch and table went marching to their places. Fred hovered the piano into the corner, spelling the leather of the piano bench red. 

Each twin aimed at a couch, turning them from dark leather to soft, inviting cloth, austere lines replaced by enticing softness, near perfect replicas of the ones in the Gryffindor common room. 

Fred chuckled under his breath. “I’ll bet the Blacks are turning in their graves,” he said with relish. 

Harry nodded. “If the portrait sees this, she’ll lose it.”

George slung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, waving his wand lazily until the coffee table strolled into place. “She’s lost it already, mate.”

Harry shrugged, because he had a point. 

“Really though, you two. Thanks.” 

Fred clapped him on the back. “We have to live here too, you know.”

“And I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of Slytherin colors. Besides.” George leaned in, eyes glittering with unholy mischief. “Picture Snape’s face next time he comes by.”

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. 

Fred stretched. “Well, that’s a job well done, in my book. See you in the morning, Harry.” 

George gave him a cheeky salute, and the two Weasley’s vanished up the stairs. Harry shook his head and padded after them. At the foot of the stairs, he paused and looked over his shoulder. One of the glittering lions of the wall yawned at him and curled up into a ball. 

Harry went to bed feeling better than he had in a long time. 

Harry woke a few scant hours later to someone screaming at the top of their lungs. Mrs. Black joined in seconds later, creating a cacophony that jerked even Ron awake.

The boys glanced at each other, snatched up their wands, and launched themselves out of bed and into the hall. They nearly ran smack into Hermione and Ginny, both sleep ruffled and disoriented, wands clutched in their white-knuckled grips. 

In the hall, the screaming was a bit clearer, and Harry realized it was Kreacher. He winced; the house elf clearly hadn’t taken their redecorating well. 

“...VANDALIZED MISTRESS'S HOUSE! FILTHY BLOOD TRAITORS! MUDBLOODS! DEFILED THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK! HOW DARE…” 

And with him, Walburga, shrieking like a banshee. 

Harry grimaced and Fred and George over Hermione’s hair. The pair grinned back at him, bright eyed and unrepentant. Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. 

Sirius clattered down the stairs from his bedroom, bundled up in his bathrobe, hair in disarray. Harry didn't catch a glimpse of his face, but he sensed murderous intent. 

“KREACHER!” Sirius roared. “SHUT UP! THAT’S AN ORDER! BE Q-”

His shouts stopped abruptly. Kreacher, too, went quiet, now that he’d been ordered to. Walburga screamed for a few more moments, before someone, presumably Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, closed the curtains. 

Nerves flickered in Harry’s gut. He’d been certain that Sirius would like the new drawing room. That he’d be delighted, relieved to be rid of the horrible tapestry that haunted them, but now he was having seconds thought. He thought he might be sick. 

Fred and George shoved their way past the girls and grabbed hair by the arms, marching him forward.

“Come on, you lot!” Fred, wearing George’s christmas sweater, barked. “Let’s see what the commotion is about!” 

Harry gulped. Dread sat icily in his stomach. His feet felt stiff, but Fred and George were relentless. The Weasley twins were a storm front with smiles, hurtling down the stairs and into the drawing room, where Sirius stood, hands slack at his sides. 

Standing behind him, Harry couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were slumped low, bathrobe still swinging from his abrupt stop. Kreacher stood beside him, head hanging, bat ears down. His doleful eyes glimmered with furious tears, and he was clutching something to his chest.

Fred and George, showing surprising grace, deposited Harry behind his godfather and retreated into the kitchen, shepherding the others with them. 

Harry fidgeted with his nightshirt. His glasses were smudged, he noticed, and wiped them clean on his hem. 

“Kreacher,” Sirius croaked. The house elf glowered up at him, mouth curling into a hateful snarl. “Upstairs. Now.” 

Kreacher bowed, long nose brushing the newly glossy floor. “As Master commands. Kreacher follows the will of-”

“Kreacher, now.” 

Kreacher skulked away, muttering unking things under his breath. Harry edged out of his way, making a note to find a way to keep Kreacher from murdering him in his bed. It would be just his luck to die by homicidal house elf while Voldemort was who-knew-where.

“Harry,” Sirius said, his voice rasping. 

“Yes?” 

“Did you do this?” 

Harry looked down at his bare feet. “Er- Well, no. It was the twins, actually-”

“But it was your idea.” It wasn’t a question.

“I- yeah. I. Um. I didn't mean-”

Sirius turned at last. His expression was soft, tears gleaming on his gaunt cheeks. Harry’s voice faltered. 

Sirius strode across the room and yanked Harry into a hug, burying his nose into his messy hair. Harry flushed. Sirius was still far too thin, his chest bony, arms spindly, but he was warm and his heart beat fast in Harry’s ear. Harry wrapped his arms awkwardly around him, feeling tears of his own prickle at his eyes. 

“You know,” he rumbled, voice vibrating in his thin chest. His worn red bathrobe was soft, and his pajamas were too small for him. “I knew it was you, the moment I saw it.”

“You did? How?” 

Sirius pulled away and wiped his eyes, beaming down at Harry. Even with his hair lank and appearance disheveled, Harry could see the ghost of his lost good looks, kind smile banishing the dark memories of Azkaban.

“Because Lily would have done it, if she were here.”


End file.
